


On the Feeding and Keeping of Desire Demons (or, sometimes a crab, is a blood mage, and that's ok)

by Skeletorific



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Homestuck
Genre: Crossover, Demonic Possession, Demons, Desire Demons (Dragon Age), Nonbinary Gamzee Makara, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28335732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeletorific/pseuds/Skeletorific
Summary: After 19 years of isolation, ostracization, and fear in the Tower, Circle Mage Karkat Vantas is chomping at the bit for....well, if not more, at least different. Finding a new calling in his Harrowing, however, was the last thing he expected. Collab chapters with I and my friend Momo
Relationships: Gamzee Makara/Karkat Vantas
Kudos: 3





	1. Is It A Chance Encounter If You Manifest All Chance?

**Author's Note:**

> I have no justification for this. Crossover time. Karkat's a Blood Mage. Gamzee is a Desire Demon. The Origins companions are here. Work out the rest for yourself.

He’d asked them once what they’d missed most about the Fade.

“Time.” They’d said simply, drifting idly around the small confined quarters. Not his room, they wouldn’t be allowed in there, would they. No doors to close, to hide away his dirtiest of secrets. Templars didn’t like mages with secrets, and this rule-abiding straitlaced Vantas of theirs had come by a few of them in the months since his Harrowing. He was in one of the many storage closets he liked to squirrely himself away in for research, and where he would let them have a little physical autonomy.

He’d frowned, that little brow furrow they loved to watch add lines to the round baby face, and looked up from his book. He squinted when he read, and they toyed sometimes with the idea of offering a repair for that vision of his in exchange for something new. “We have time.”

“Not like we got there.” They lingered by one of the overstuffed shelves, weighing spell components and clay pots in vellum in their clawed hands. “Time there has color, texture, weight, taste. It can be reshaped, refigured to anything you please.”

“You influence timelines?” 

They shrug, a fluid motion that transitions gracefully into a slow turn. They smile to themselves at his position, this big man in robes a size too small, hunkered down by some rolled up carpets with a pile of scrolls by his crossed legs. His staff remains propped against the desk, pulsing occasionally with the ambient shifts and flow of the magical currents. It’d be ridiculous if there weren’t so much endearing about him.

Even then they’d been stunned at how quick he’d crawled into the soft spots in their chest cavity and found himself a patch to warm. This game had been entertaining, yes, but from the very outset there’d been something of substance beyond the fleeting pleasures of mortal entertainment.

“Don’t know about influence, mage. More about perception. You see what suits.” They tease a loose curl with their fingertips, working it loose of the gold chains that drape between their horns. “And who knows, if what suits enough demons lines up neatly enough, maybe you feel the changes echo out in here. Never had much of a head for it. Just know history in there is more a matter of preference than the preference of matter.”

He seemed to be trying to work through it, but then caught the poorly concealed amusement on their face and made a scathing sound in the back of his throat, turning back to his book. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe.” They lower to the ground, drifting in front of him and leaning in over his book to force him to look at them. Untold centuries they’ve drifted between the Fade and this world, long as there had been a veil to tear, and they don’t think they’ve had anything hit quite like the flustered irritation on his face. “But at least I’m not boring, unlike some motherfuckers I could name.”

“The sooner I figure out the ritual to make you corporeal, the sooner we can both put this whole.....issue, the fuck behind us.” He tried (unsuccessfully) to nudge their chin away with the edge of the book and finally settled for just pulling the book in tighter on his lap.

“So eager to get rid of me. A demon might start to take that personal. Saying you aren’t enjoyin my company?” 

He snorted, but there’s red in the tips of his ears. “What matters more is what the templars’ opinion is gonna be if they catch us. I don’t think they’d find you particularly enjoyable.”

They clutched their chest, pantomiming a wound. It made a grin quirk on his lips, try as he might to suppress it.

“Buuuuuuut that’s not answerin my question.” They leaned against the wall, toying with a bangle on their wrist and admiring how the gold glinted in the torchlight. “What do you think of me?”

“You’re talkative today, you know that?”

“It’s ok if the answer is ‘a hassle’.”

He rolls his eyes. Still, he’s been staring down at the same page for far too long now to pretend he’s not listening.

“.....like I said. It doesn’t matter what I think of you. I was stupid enough to saddle myself with a demon. But....you’re not like what I expected.” The admission had come quietly, reluctantly, but there’s no malice in him. That’s what they liked about Karkat. The malice always lived out front. If he had a problem it was almost impossible for him to conceal it. 

“Hm...” They had scratched idly at their chin, looking up at the ceiling. “....It’ll do for now, I guess.”

“‘For now’, if all goes well you’ll be turned loose on the unsuspecting Free Marches within the month and I’ll sit in my tower and quietly agonize about what crimes against humanity I’ve just enabled-”

“You got studyin to do, Karkat. Might recommend gettin to it.” And with that, they had vanished, essence dissolving back into the silverite amulet tucked beneath his robes.

Suffice to say a month hadn’t been enough.

It’d become two. Then three, then six, and then-  
No revelation, just discovery. The limits he’d broken, the ones they’d coaxed and prodded out of him and the ones he’d freely volunteered, had finally caught up to them both. A desire demon wasn’t built for regret, but they’d come the closest they’d ever felt to the experience as they watched the color drain from his face, looking at the templar wielding the brand that could cut him off from them forever.

But there was something a little magnificent about watching the transformation. The fear melt into frustration into defiance. No explanations, no apologies, no pleas. Their Vantas, their man who they’d feel weeping in the quiet corners of the Chantry chapel, who kept his head ducked when he walked by patrols and who still prayed under his breath when he drew blood....he wasn’t going to take this punishment meekly.

The miasma of emotions they’d felt settle in them when he realized he wouldn’t give them up, when they felt that moment of decision like they felt their limb, like they felt the fade....it was the kind of thing that could change a spirit’s nature, if they’d let it.

If they hadn’t felt themselves so lit up by want and need in that moment. Their power leaking from the amulet, seeping into his blood and his staff and his eyes, something not quite possession and not quite abominating but something infinitely more frightening to them both. Had the Warden not intervened....

They still don’t know how that might have shaken out.

Their big man wasn’t so young anymore. The baby face was long gone, replaced by feature carving themselves out of the lines of his face through hardship. A beard covered those once round cheeks, touched with gray from stress and lending him the dignity he’d once have traded anything for. His shoulders, now more accustomed to armor than simple robes, broadened. His belly, thank whatever gods there were, was still there, still a warm and soft place to rest their head. But the rest of him had filled out to match it, made everything seem to fit a little more naturally.

They still weren’t corporeal, not properly. Other deals had been made, other favors traded, smaller and larger, on his path. 

Deals to increase his power, to let him carve through the horde with a field of lightning or level a tunnel with a well placed storm.

Deals to protect innocence, to summon shades around a cowering family or pull a spirit of compassion to lift fallen comrades from the battlefield.

Deals to let him sleep on the nights when the Call was louder than he could bear, when he woke up shivering, fit to fly apart and not quite himself. They would wrap their arms around him and whisper in languages older than he could conceive. He thought it was spellpower, but they hadn’t been putting magic behind the words for months. Privately they think they both know. The chants are a fiction they allow to be maintained as a cover.

They still tell stories, long after the need for alibis has passed. That’s alright, they think. Its honest in a way the truth usually isn’t. 

For what they get out of it, well...

As they said. They’re a demon built for want. Wanting one thing in particular, these days.

“What do you miss most about the Circle?” They ask him one night. Unusually enough for them, they have a roof over their heads tonight. The rare trip out to Weisshaupt. Another Warden Commander convinced they’ve found the secret to bringing back the griffins. Karkat was content to humor it so long as he got access to the archives, and they were happy enough to be out of the wet and cold for a few weeks. They could almost feel it, they insisted whenever he interrogated their preference for a warm room.

He snorts, not looking up from polishing the blade at the end of his staff. Blackened stains ran along its edges, old and seeping in through years of use. “Depends on the day you ask me. Right now I miss being in a building of people who won’t get bug-eyed at the mention of lyrium-life force conversion theory.”

“Not a serious answer.” They sprawl out on the pillows, almost nesting in them. They weren’t exactly luxurious, but compared to the usual bedroll affair of the past few months. A roof that actually keeps out the rain, what a novel concept. 

“Since when do you do serious answers.” He sets the staff aside, balancing it carefully on the end table and running his fingers through his hair. Its getting longer. He’ll ask someone to hack it down to a reasonable length soon, but for now they can admire the way its falls in his eyes and casts interesting shadows on his face. In the firelight he looks mythic.

“Humor me.”

He sighs softly, leaning back in his chair and staring into the fire. “....The routine. I know it sounds insane to you, but.....I felt comfortable knowing what was going to happen every day. It made me feel safe. I don’t exactly get a lot of that anymore.”

They turn the answer over in their brain, a curious thrill settling in at the utter incomprehensibility of it. Routine was anathema to spirits and demons alike, a status quo so built into their structure that willingly embracing it seemed backwards. It was like a mortal saying they missed having to inhale and exhale to avoid death.

“Do you ever regret it.” They say softly. Barely letting it escape past their lips.

There’s a long pause and then he turns back to face them, a warm ring of light around his head. Like a halo, almost. He’s said it before, but they sustain themselves off it now. Its his realest form of currency with them, though they’re still working out how to admit it.

“No. Do you?”

They let a slow grin split their features. The real one, the rarest one, debuted only when he’s deserving. It happens more and more these days. They swing their legs off the bed and walk over to him, cupping his face and leaning down a bit to press a kiss to his cheek. It scratches a bit with the stubble and they’ve never minded that a bit. 

“What would I be doing without my big man, huh? Sounds boring.”

Another thing that comes easier these days. His blush. He grumbles under his breath, covering the hand on his cheek with his own. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe.” They trail their lips up to his and the hunger that makes up Them purrs when he chases the kiss on his own. “But it seems to me you got studyin to be doing, Karkat.” His hands slip around their waist, drawing them closer even as he continues to mutter treasonously. They let him pull them in. Let him do worse, or better, or anything at all. They’d clear the way for a second longer.

They fit here. In the silver on his chest, in his lap, in the gaps in his body and in the heat of his eyes.

“Might recommend gettin to it.”


	2. Underground Satiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Deep Roads really are a field for trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whether or not I add Karkat's quirk will continue to be a matter of opinion

“You need a break.” They murmur in his ear. His hair is dripping with blood (only some of it being his own) and he’s currently propped against the wall of a cave just to keep himself upright. A genlock is dead at his feet and a sword sits ill at ease in his hand. His staff was miles behind, broken in two and all but useless.

Karkat’s breath comes in ragged pants that don’t so much transport oxygen as they do become a vehicle for the agony he’s not letting himself speak verbally. He waves them off, the edges of their body dissolving into wisps of purple at the distortion. “IM FINE.”

“No you’re not.” They insist, slipping in front of him. He draws in a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes and forcing his body upright.

“I CAN’T AFFORD TO NOT BE.” He shuffled ahead a bit, aiming one well-earned kick at the genlock’s head that probably takes energy he can’t spare. No, they know he can’t spare. “WYNNE, PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE NOT DEAD.”

“Just barely…” The old woman’s voice came from around the blind corner of the tunnels. “Are you alright? Do you need healing?”

“IT COULDN’T HURT.” He wiped some blood out of his eyes. 

“What you’re needing is rest.” They repeat insistently, drifting along behind him.

“You’ll have to give me a moment. Alistair was knocked out by a stray arrow.”

“IS HE-”

“He’s fine. A nice lump on his forehead to show for it, but he should be up in a moment.”

Karkat manages to round the corner, where Wynne is kneeling in front of Alistair. Her hands pulse a faint blue, the lights spiralling around Alistair’s forehead. Gamzee’s never felt anything but irritation coming off the old mage, but right now all they can manage is grateful, as Karkat allows himself to slide into a sitting position. A pain gasped slips out, and they swear they feel it echoing in themselves. They drift to kneel next to him, ignoring the pointed glares on his face.

“Keep pushing yourself like this and you’re not making it to the Anvil, forget the surface.”

He grits his teeth and oh, they can feel he is trying so very hard to be patient with them. It feels worse than anything, these careful words that slip between chapped lips, using stamina he doesn’t have on trying to frame illogical mortality in demon terms. “I CAN’T REST HERE, GAMZEE, ITS NOT SAFE.”

“I know that, big man, I know it,” They pull his hand into theirs, feeling the echo of his warmth across the stitches of reality holding them apart from it. Trying to put everything in touch that’s so hard to make him hear. “But-”

“If we’re to be conferring with...spirits, now, I think I could use some time to meditate.” Wynne says, jarring them both out of the moment. She’s looking pointedly at their joined hands, apparently too exhausted to project as much disapproval as usual. “We still have a ways to go, and I would like to attune more to Faith. I have a feeling I’ll need her abilities.”

“WYNNE-”

“Alistair won’t be awake for a few minutes anyways. You might as well take their advice when its for your own good.” The for once was implied, if not spoken. They let it pass, because letting means her walking away. Letting means Karkat has no good reason to wrestle himself away from a sitting position.

He seems to come to the same conclusion, letting out a heavy exhale and letting his head sink against the stone. “FUCK.”

They squeeze his hand and release it, shifting a bit to settle in next to him. “A two hour bit of shuteye isn’t gonna bring the spawn back any faster, and you can’t keep this pace.”

He snorts. “YOU THINK I CAN SLEEP DOWN HERE.”

“....can’t you?”

“NO.” He draws his legs a little closer to him and turns away. They try not to let that bother them; he’s been trying so hard down here, they can’t blame him for not giving more of himself. “THE DREAMS….THE DREAMS ARE WORSE, AND I CAN FEEL THEM…..”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. This place is teeming with the corruption in his blood, with the song that’s only getting louder. They feel every desire in that mage of their, including the strays, that wander off into the twisted, fleshy hordes that press on all sides. Its those aches that scare them most: there’s no way to feed it without starving every part that makes him, him. Without starving themselves straight out of existence, of purpose, of nature. 

They reach up to brush back a few tufts of hair, fingers lingering on his temple. “Then let me help with that, big man…”

Their palms pulse with magic, with the readiness to give him what his body is screaming for….but his fingers close around theirs, dimming the light. 

“IF I LET MYSELF…..I DON’T WAKE UP.”

…..They know enough of him by now to know he doesn’t like the questions pressing on their teeth.

Would that be so bad, mage of mine? To let me put you where no one can hurt you? What happens to that body of yours, those friends of yours, that world of yours wouldn’t be your problems. Wouldn’t even feel it. Just peaceful rest and me with your hand....

“YOU’RE DOING IT AGAIN.”

They blink a bit, startled out of thought. “Doing what?”

“TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF MY MORTALITY.” He cranes his neck a bit to look back at him. They’ve gotten good at reading Vantas expressions, but this one seems to be just outside their lexicon. “ITS NOT GOING TO MAKE SENSE TO YOU. AND ITS INCURABLE.”

“.....” They laugh. Its short and terse and tired, but they laugh, his own miracle gift to them. “Not for lack of trying, can say that at least.”

“IM TERMINALLY MATTER, GAMZEE, ITS TIME WE ALL MADE OUR FUCKING PEACE WITH IT. I HAVE TIME, I EAT FOOD, AND I DON’T MAKE ANY GODDAMN SENSE WHATSOEVER.” He gives up on trying to find a good position to curl up in, straightening up into a proper sitting position with a sigh.

None of that on their watch. They grip his shoulder and carefully tug them to lay his head on their lap. It didn’t always work, but….right now what he wanted was a soft place to put his head. That they could manage, that they could feed.

And as he curls up under the gentle scratches on his head, tucks his face into the soft down on their belly and breathes them in deeply, they take their fill as well.

“Makes you somethin of a matter baby, huh?”

“....WHAT’S A-....OH, YOU BITCH.”

“Nothin much, sugar, what’s the matter with you.” They lean down to brush their lips against the shell of his ear, relishing the faint shiver, relishing the soft little sigh and the fact that even down here….they still got it. His shoulders shake with a fragile little giggle that’s so wildly and beautifully out of place on a man this size.

“ITS NOT FUNNY.” He says between shaky little breaths. “ITS NOT FUNNY, I’M SO FUCKING TIRED AND ITS SO FUCKING AWFUL DOWN HERE.”

“Damn, you’d best be sleeping then.” They tug lightly on a strand of hair, earning them a soft groan of protest. “Otherwise you’d be rolling in the aisles.”

“TUNNELS….” His eyes are already heavy, his voice beginning to trail off.

“Tunnels.” They whisper softly. Stroking his cheek, feeling the new texture stubble has added. It was rare they were solid enough for this. “Such as they are.”

He does pass out. They cheat, they cheat a little. They whisper into the air and let sleep hold Alistair for a little longer. They doubt he’ll mind: they gave him some good dreams for his troubles.

Wynne can shoot all the disapproving glares she wants. 

This, at least, they can do.


End file.
